Chapter 1 - Solace
Taverns, by all accounts, smell very similar to pig sties and this one was no exception. The 'Tilted Titan' tavern had seen better days, the chipped paintwork on the hanging sign barely showing a trace of the wavering monolith that had been depicted. Its best days were behind it and inside; the smell of stale sweat mixed with the sickly stench of salted meat and strong ale, an assault on the senses. The innkeeper stood behind the bar, using a dirty rag to mop away the sweat that stained his brow before returning that rag to the inside of a glass in a half-forgotten attempt to polish it. On this particular night the tavern was packed to bursting, a sharp autumn chill had gripped Solace and its residents had taken shelter in the comforts of warm mead and some form of company. Frantic gnomes run back and forth between the bar and its patrons, the contents of the tankards sloshing out on to the floor, already a sticky mess of congealing ale. Added to the roaring fire, the press of bodies creates a cauldron of heat, while the cacophony of conversation, jeers and shouts deafens those who walk in from the tranquil evening air. In the corner, a lithe elven dancer begins to rhythmically sway to the tune of an accompanying bard who seems more preoccupied with her than the flute he plays. Yet this story is not about that tavern, nor the innkeeper or the gnomes, nor unfortunately is it about the dancer. What a story that would be to tell... perhaps another time.
This story is a tale of four companions, unlikely ones at that. If this was a fairytale, they would have been the perfect group, a deadly band of warriors driven by honour or on a mission from the gods, or you know... something heroic like that. They would have been loyal, kind, generous and friends forever. Unfortunately this was no fairytale and this group of travellers were misfits, brought together by chance and some form of fate. A human, two elves and a half-ogre; while a good start to a joke is not what probably comes to mind for an ideal band of warriors. They were rude, divided, seemingly incapable of trust and except perhaps for one, were either completely unaware of the idea of honour or simply thought it was as bizarre an idea as using a dolphin as a way to cross an ocean. Yet what the party lacked in these noble qualities, they more than made up for in their ruthlessness, cunning and blind ambition. So here they began, sitting in a tavern all a thousand leagues from home, with the world at their doorstep: like a peach ripe for the taking.
The leader of their group, while none of the others would freely admit it, was Vincent Longborn, a man who kept as many secrets as he did blades. Dressed in a fine black surcoat that concealed the majority of his chainmail hauberk, supported by a padded leather doublet he was an imposing hulk of a man. His arms cords of knotted muscle straining beneath the confines of his shirt while the leather vambraces, dyed a deep shade of rosewood, looked big enough to fit around the upper arms of most normal men. He sat with his back to the fire, his cloak draped over his lap upon which lay his longsword, its edges gleaming with the finish of oil he had just applied. As he steadied the weapon with his right hand, the left stroked a whetstone along the edge, not too hard, just enough to keep the edge so sharp it could cut through skin and muscle and bone. The hands that honed the blade were scarred and worn, like a tourney blade after a melee; these were hands that belonged to a warrior, to a man that had spent more nights with a blade at his side than a woman. His face while not ugly to behold had a fierce quality to it, with long brown hair and eyes of matching colour. While other members of the inn had first looked to protest when he had unsheathed his sword at the table, one look from his stern face had quietened those protests. His eyes told of a man who not only was good at killing but took pleasure in it, one who took pleasure in the hunt just as much as the kill.
To his left sat someone who truly looked out of place in this tavern, but this was not surprising considering he looked out of places in most taverns, well actually he looked out of place pretty much everywhere. Tudagub was big, really big. A half ogre who stood at over eight feet tall, seemingly even taller with his long mohawk of coarse black hair and matching braided beard. His skin was an unnatural shade of dark grey like he had been carved from stone and his teeth stood out long and sharp, all yellow with that look of imminent rot. However, it was not the gigantic frame of Tudagub that caught most people's attention, nor the overly large maul he kept slung across his back. It was the smell. A mix of wine soaked breath and an unwashed body led to quite the putrid stench emanating from him. Were it not for the already rankness of the tavern itself, his presence might have turned even more heads, although to the party it was no longer an issue. Bathe in pig shit and soon you won't even smell it as they say, or at least so I've heard pig farmers tell me. The very fact that boots of a garish shade of pink adorned his massive feet seemed to be the least notable thing when it came to Tudagub, really said something about him as a person. His gruff visage was only complimented by his quite simply offensive manner and as Vincent examined his gleaming sword in the firelight, the half ogre casually reached down and snatched a tankard of ale from the nearest gnome. Who upon seeing the giant body attached to accusing hand, thought better than to complain about it.
A disapproving grunt could be heard from across the table, well Tudagub might have heard it if the tavern had not been so boisterous that is. Bregor shook his head before sipping at his wine, his eyes flitting around the room, always observant, always perceiving the nearest threat. The elvish ranger was a man of few words, always carefully choosing the next step trying to charm or coerce the next target or employer. He was not overly impressive to behold, with his slim frame that did not hint at his wiry strength nor his precision with a bow. Unlike Vincent he wore no flowing surcoat, instead his raiment was a mix of green and brown, leather trousers the shade of old oak and a long olive doublet that fell to his knees slashed at the front. The chestnut shirt below concealed the thin mail shirt, his only protection from a blow, for Bregor relied on concealment and surprise aiming to kill before his foes saw him. His short blonde hair and pale emerald eyes gave the elf a youthful complexion despite his age and at least compared to his companions, he had a rugged handsomeness about him. The bow slung across his back whispered of swift and silent death, but that face held only warm smiles and a welcoming gaze. Betrayal hid behind those kind lips.
The final member of the party, like Bregor was of elvenkind, and for their matching blonde hair they could have been related. Though Abigaël wore hers long, falling around her shoulders like a playful child, a world away from the manufactured styles of the noble courts. Her face was youthful and had a naive quality about it, as if her innocence was written across her forehead plain for the world to see. However that claim of innocence would have been a lie, she may have had a sweet girly smile but her fingertips itched for gold and there she sat by Bregor sniffing the scent of possible riches in the drunken air. In a satchel by her side the faint squeaking of her ferret was barely audible, but Abigaël had big plans for her pet and one day she would have him bringing her riches at every opportunity. For tonight, however, she was content to sit in the warm inn and wait for those drunk enough to get careless, and when they got careless she got wealthier. Her leather jerking concealed daggers of differing shapes and sizes, for this elf there was nothing such as an honourable kill, cut his throat and be done with it. Abigaël had found in her experience that men gurgling on their own blood rarely took the time to take a swing at you. The shadows were her friends, and she needed no others.
So that was our troop of what some might call adventurers, travellers or just four incompetent mercenaries with sociopathic tendencies. It was in this very tavern that they would begin a journey so terrifying in its scope; none could have envisioned how far it would take them and yet it began that very night, with a man dressed in red robes. With the tavern being so crammed with persons, it was very difficult for someone to move inconspicuously and so with many muttered apologies and gentle manoeuvring through the crowd this bumbling red robed man approached. Vincent noticed him first, his eyes flickering between the oiled blade in his hand and the crowd always watching with interest. The man appeared to be a fairly indistinct looking middle-aged man, with short grey hair receding at front, his shiny bald forehead reflecting the light from the fireplace. The other members of the group soon caught on to the polite figure, edging his way towards them looking around slightly nervously. Tudagub was the last to notice him, unsurprisingly, his attention too fixated on his chicken leg that he was ravenously devouring, only pausing to wash it down with the tankard of ale. The man walked until he was only a few feet from the table, stopping to examine the blank faces before realising that no greeting would be offered to him any time soon.
"M-might I be correct in assuming that you four are... swords for hire, so to speak?"
While the others in the group simply carried on staring, none wanting to bother with such a vague inquiry, Bregor looked the man carefully in the eye. He took a final sip from his wine and placed it gently on the table, a finger still resting thoughtfully on the rim of the glass.
"We may be for hire, if the price is right."
The red robed man nodded almost instinctively, his nervousness barely hidden.
"Well, recently my family home was attacked in the hills by a pack of goblins and they've taken... they've taken everything from me. I was hoping I could persuade you to get my possessions back to me," he said, his eyes flitting between Bregor and the others.
What perhaps was the hint of a smile crossed the elf's lips before he responded.
"Persuade? I'm afraid we're not much for being persuaded by words," Bregor said, sharing a look with Vincent who nodded accordingly at the newcomer. "However, if you wish to persuade us with coin... Well, then that would be different altogether. How much are you willing to pay us for our troubles?"
The man shuffled nervously on the spot, he was a learned man and yet here he stood with sweaty palms cowed by the sight of these four grim sellswords. He gathered himself, licking his dried lips.
"You can have whatever money you find on these goblins, whether it's mine or someone else's. It is only the possessions they took from my house that I desire, the gold is yours."
Tudagub belched loudly, startling the man, and wiped his mouth with the back of this dirty hand.
"I think we might need more than just that, after all, dangerous business going after goblins," the half-ogred grunted.
"Well, they took all my stuff. I'm asking you to get it back, I can pay you with the money they stole," the red-robed man replied. He rubbed his brow tiredly, he had thought it was going to be simpler than this.
"So what are these possessions, eh? What kind of items did they take? Just out of curiosity," Tudagub queried, in a tone that suggested it was out of greed, not curiosity.
"Just... Just family heirlooms; a sword, a crystal ball that frankly I don't know what it does... some silverware, a vase that belonged to my grandmother..."
He carried on listing family valuables, trinkets and other mundane items, not noticing the bored expression on Tudagub's face. Vincent, who had been silent this whole time, had noticed that the man's robes were of a fine quality. The fabric was a plush cherry red, the black stitching that ran along the hem was finely patterned and a well-crafted silver clasp fastened the outer robe at the throat, carved in the shape of what seemed to be a magpie. For all he seemed to be a man who had lost all his possessions clearly he was not without wealth at some point, though whether he still retained any of that wealth was a different question entirely.
"So, here's an idea," Tudagub began, his eyes gleaming greedily. "How about instead of just the money we find, we get to keep that crystal ball if we find it? Seeing as you don't know what it does anyway, seems to me that we could make more use of it than you."
"What! No, no that's one of the things I need you to get back for me," the man exclaimed, his eyes widening in horror at the thought of handing such a family heirloom over to this beast of a man. "It's been passed down three hundred generations... and I want it, you can't have it."
Tudagub scratched his beard thoughtfully, one dirt encrusted fingernail tracing the lines on the braided hair.
"How about, we get to take a look at it then give it to you"
Only Tudagub seemed to be unaware of the idiocy of this statement, as the other members of the party all gave him looks of weary frustration at his ignorance. The red robed man simply raised an eyebrow quizzically before replying.
"Well, you will have to see it to bring it to me don't you?"
Luckily for the man, Tudagub didn't realise he was being talked down to and merely nodded in naive agreement. The group all exchanged glances, indicating their willingness before Bregor informed the man that they would happily take the job for the coin that was promised. He proceeded to give them vague and largely unhelpful directions to where he thought the goblins resided before agreeing to meet several days from now, and with a satisfied nod turned and left their presence.
The rest of the night passed uneventfully, as the tavern wound down for the evening and the locals returned to their homes or passed out in the gutters depending on how much they had drank. Vincent, having long been separated from the joys of a woman's intimate company, attempted to seduce the elven dancer when she took a break from her entertaining, but sadly for himself spent his evening alone, sharpening his sword. Tudagub having already drained a few tankards of ale, grabbed one to help him sleep before trudging up to the room, the remaining patrons scattering before his lumbering gait as he stomped up the stairs. Bregor and Abigaël spent the night sitting at the table, talking of little in their modest elven fashion and while Bregor slept, Abigaël attempted a distinctly average piece of thievery in the middle of the night, using her pet ferret as a distraction... Oh, did I not mention that she had a pet ferret? She does, and this will not be the last time you hear of Mr Mogwoggles.
Morning came, and the brave companions broke their fast on bacon burnt black and stale brown bread, Tudagub of course washing his meal down with a healthy dose of wine. They left the Tavern early as the sun rose over the quite town of Solace. It was quiet at this early hour except for the odd farmer already out in the fields tending to his livestock and a pair of the town's guard patrolling the edge of the settlement, who offered nothing but a wary look to the party. One young villager approached as they left town, clearly in awe of these rough travellers who thought so little of wandering in to the midst of goblins. Light dew covered the grass as they strode from town, across the gently rolling hills that rose to the north. It took no longer than a couple of hours before the group spotted a cake sunken into a hill in the distance, as they had crested the top of a small wooded knoll the pair of stunted goblins stuck out against the mouth of the cave.
A quick glance between Vincent and Bregor confirmed what they were both thinking, from this far the pair of elven archers should be able to pick off the goblins while still concealed in the trees. Knowing that he was useless from this range, and more importantly too tired to be putting any real effort in at this early hour, Tudagub propped himself against the base of a tree and uncorked his wineskin to occupy the time. As Vincent unsheathed his longsword quietly and slip his arm through the loops on his shield, Bregor and Abigaël strung their bows. While only being a short recurve bow, the goblins were well within Abigael's range, whereas for Bregor's yew longbow the targets were within a child's reach. Once they were within a couple of hundred feet, each drew an arrow from the quivers on their back. They exchanged one last glance before drawing the arrows back at the same time and loosing.
The first the goblin's knew about the incoming missiles was Bregor's arrow taking the goblin on the left right through the forehead, the arrowhead protruding from the back on the creature's head as it slumped to the ground without a cry. Luckily for the second goblin, it had been many weeks since Abigaël had practiced her archery and her rushed shot whipped past its head and clattered against the rocks behind. The remaining goblin seeing his friend reduced to a lifeless heap needed no further encouragement, letting out a terrified wail and began pounding on the rickety wooden door to the cave's entrance. Vincent had already began walking purposefully towards the entrance as the shots had been loosed, and Tudagub rose irritably from his sitting position to follow. He gave one last grunt of amusement towards Abigaël before stomping away, drawing his crudely made maul and shouting over his shoulder as he walked away.
"Bregor, if you could do Abigaël's job for her we'd all appreciate it."
Bregor had already nocked another arrow to his bowstring, taking aim at the goblin that was now screaming incoherently and kicking the door with his stubby feet. The arrow flew from his fingers, the grey goose feather fletching sliding from his grip as it sailed towards his doomed target. His aim did not fail him, and the arrow took the goblin right through the back piercing the heart and emerging the other side to spray the door with blood so dark it was barely red. It fell back, clutching at its chest before falling to the ground, silent except for the blood bubbling out the corners of his mouth. Bregor turned to Abigael to see she too had nocked an arrow in an attempt to make up for her previous failure, he simply gave her a sympathetic shrug and headed off after his companions. By the time Bregor arrived at the door, Tudagub had scoured the bodies for anything worth taking and Vincent was standing guard sword at the ready. Through the door, Bregor's keen elven ears picked up the not so subtle sounds of commotion from within, guttural goblin shouts and the clanking of metal.
"Move out the way, I'm already bored of this and I can hear the bar calling my name," Tudagub interrupted. His elven friend acquiesced and the oversized half-ogre, drew back his trunk-like leg before attempting to kick through the flimsy wooden entrance.
One thing to mention about Tudagub at this point was that he was not graceful; he lacked balance and his co-ordination was severely lacking. Combine this with the fact that he had already had a fair bit of wine this morning, meant that this attempt to kick down the door was truly misjudged. With a grunt he thrust his foot forward and with all his force kicked the earthen wall of the hill, his foot bouncing off the immovable surface. He cried out in pain clutching his knee and unleashing a stream of curses both in Common and Ogre. No doubt the other companions would have burst out in laughter, were it not for the fact that at that moment the doors swung outwards and more ugly squat goblins ran out in to the morning light. A trio of pock-marked little creatures with short spears ran out to greet the party, at first shrinking back at the sight of the large assailants before regaining their courage and lunging forward.
A pair of the shouting goblins darted forward towards the hulking mass of Tudagub, their bony arms flicking out to jab at him with their shoddy spears. The metal tips deflected harmlessly off the ogre's rusty chainmail, spitting a glob of green phlegm at them in disgust. The first who had appeared had not stopped to even think and ran frantically at Vincent, his spear managing to catch the warrior just below the knee, its dented blade leaving a shallow cut on his calf. Tudagub laughed at Vincent's misfortune before bellowing and taking a great swing with his maul, the goblin barely managing to jump back as the spiked head slammed in to the ground where he had just been. Vincent took a step back, wincing on his wounded leg and attempted to also swipe back at the impudent goblin who had thought to attack him, but his leg had put him off balance and the blade did not come close to the creature.
Behind them, both Bregor and Abigaël had taken up positions and began to loose arrows at the new foes. The slender arrows hit with deadly force, Bregor's arrow slicing a goblin's neck open knocking it to the ground choking on its own blood, while his companion's arrow gutted the goblin beside it, the barbed arrowhead shredding its insides. Yet as they fell another three emerged from the cave joining the remaining goblin, which now looked less confident having seen his fellow warriors be slaughtered from afar. The new spearmen lunged forward but Vincent batted away his assailant's spear with his shield, while the two attacking Tudagub seemed to lose their courage and merely feinted at him, their spears not even reaching his body. Although now seeing the mounting numbers, he began to back away from the goblins facing him, his teeth bared; daring the goblins to pursue him.
Vincent lunged back at his attacker, managing to carve a deep gash in its shoulder, the goblin howling in pain as it switched the spear to its left hand, its right arm hanging limply by its side. The elven archers continued to rain arrows, but the new goblins had seen this coming and one managed to fling itself clear of Bregor's arrow, while Abigaël's only managed to skewer another through its leg, an animal like scream escaping the goblin's mouth. As Tudagub retreated from the fight, all the goblins took their chance and surrounded Vincent, who lashed out with his sword, managing to send the three to his front scurrying. However, as he did so one cowardly creature managed to get behind him and jabbed with his spear, the thin point managing to part the rings of mail and left a throbbing wound in his back.
Seeing Vincent being surrounded Bregor bounded forward, dropping his bow as he ran and drawing his longsword, Abigael followed reluctantly pulling out the short sword she so rarely used. They reached him just as he took the blow to the back and lunged into the fray, Bregor lopping the head off the goblin who was already limping from the arrow in his leg. A fountain of blood sprayed through the air as the decapitated corpse toppled over. Abigaël followed with her best war cry, but in her zeal to join the fight struck past the goblin who had wounded Vincent, almost striking her companion in the process. Tudagub had returned to the fight and placed a hand on Vincent's shoulder, red light emanating from his fingertips as the wounds on Vincent's body began to repair and the trickle of blood down his back stopped. The remaining goblins shrieked in terror seeing they were now outnumbered began to retreat, one hurtling towards the door babbling in his own tongue. The other two began to move but two slowly, and Tudagub's long gait put himself between them and the door before they could take more than a couple of steps, letting out a hearty laugh as the one behind him poked at his back impotently.
Abigaël advanced on the pair of trapped goblins, grabbing a fistful of greasy hair back; she cut the throat of the one which Vincent had maimed already. Released from her grip, it fell to the ground, hands clawing at the remains of its gashed open neck. Before the goblin beside it could respond, Vincent stepped forward bringing his sword across in a vicious horizontal slash, tearing open the tendons on the back of its bandy legs. The goblin dropped to its knees and threw the spear down, wailing in terror, clearly begging in words that none could understand. Tudagub had been watching the commotion with enjoyment, and had paid no attention to the remaining goblin who got as close as he dared behind the hulking giant before stabbing the spear into the exposed flesh behind Tudagub's knee. In a blind rage the half ogre whirled around, his maul forgotten, and reached for the creature's scrawny neck. The goblin managed to slice a long gash down Tudagub's forearm, before he was violently slammed against the cave wall, pinned in place by his neck.
The two elves advanced on the surrendering goblin, their bloodied swords in hand, and slaughter in their eyes. Each swung at the figure on his back, lazy swings with no real effort, as the goblin scrambled back from each blow; bawling in terror and throwing his hands up in a feeble attempt to dissuade the blood-thirsty pair. Meanwhile Vincent appeared at Tudagub's side, and removed a wineskin from the cleric's belt. He approached the flailing goblin, managing to pin his spearhand against the wall before uncorking the skin with his thumb. There was no smile on Vincent's face as he jammed the wineskin in the screaming goblin's mouth, just a look of grim determination. The expression on Tudagub's face was of pure horror and disgust, and that was most certainly not because he was an advocate of goblin's rights.
"Vincent! What the fuck do you think you're doing? Stop wasting my bloody wine on this little stain of shit on my boots," Tudagub exclaimed. He let out a deep growl of frustration before dropping the goblin to the ground and snatching the nearly empty skin from Vincent's hand.
As Tudagub trudged off in annoyance, Vincent turned his head to call after him and forgot about the goblin slumped against the cave wall before him. Seeing his chance the goblin snatched up his spear and with a last desperate cry, shoved the spear at Vincent's belly. The cloth on the black surcoat was torn about as the thin blade parted the rings of chainmail beneath and stuck in his belly, not deep enough to be life threatening but the blade was firmly stuck in the muscle. Vincent stared back his mouth agape in shock, looking down at the wooden shaft sticking out from his surcoat. With a roar that only Tudagub could have equalled he snapped the shaft off with his hands and with all his strength brought it down on the face of the goblin trembling before him. The sharp concentrated mass of splintered wood popped the right eyeball and pushed on with Vincent's enormous strength, gouged out the insides of the goblin's skull. Blood and brains oozed from the eye socket and nose, running in a gruesome stream down the fresh corpse as Vincent let go of the spear and the body fell like a puppet that'd had its strings cut.
Abigaël and Bregor had been so distracted by Vincent and Tudagub's antics that they had paid no attention to the goblin who'd attempted to surrender. As they looked back to where they expected to see the wounded goblin lying, only a congealed pool of blood remained and as they looked behind them they saw the stumbling figure running away. The elves grinned to each other and casually jogged back to where they had dropped their bows to the ground, the goblin was wounded and struggling to run so they were in no rush. As they each plucked arrows to fire at the stumbling figure, they place bets on who would hit first, after all they hadn't had a good hunt in weeks. As it turned out, their arrogance was unwarranted as each of their first two arrows failed to score a killing blow, with one of Abigaël's just managing to knick the goblin's leg. With much jeering from Tudagub; Bregor began to get frustrated, complaining about his arms being tired or the goblin weaving too much. Luckily for his own pride, his third arrow was as clean a kill as an archer could hope for, right through the back and the goblin slammed forward into the dirt, never to rise again.
The elves stalked back to the group, Bregor now with a smile on his face, quickly forgetting all the poor shots of the day already. The pair of them flitted between the corpses around the entrance, recovering any arrows that were still usable, though many had broken as the bodies fell. Abigaël's natural instincts took over as she searched the bodies, looking for any coins the goblins might have held. Thorough as she was, she found nearly two hundred silver pieces on the bodies; though later she would inform the group that she found only one hundred. In her generosity she gave each of her companions twenty five silver, she may be a thief after all but she was not completely without a sense of fairness. After all, she thought, let them think me generous and sharing, for the more I take the less they will question me.
Vincent sat on a nearby spit of rock jutting from the ground as he grasped the remains of the spear embedded in his torso. His bloodied fingers held the remains of the shaft tightly, tried to slow his breath for a moment then pulled hard and clean; twisting the spearhead free. He gave a low grunt as the iron slid from his body, blood soaking his shirt below before he took a strip of cloth from his bag and pressed it to the wound.
"Tudagub, I'd appreciate some healing for my wounds, I'm in no state to carry on if there is to be more fighting," he said, motioning to the hand clutching his wound.
The half ogre turned the wineskin in his hand, upturning it as if to remind Vincent of its once full contents. Truly he was drained from his own wounds and previous attempts to heal Vincent that he could not have performed the act even if he wanted to, but Tudagub was in no mood for honesty with a man who had wasted good wine.
"Well I'd love to help you out there friend, but you see I've got my own wounds to tend to and I've one less skin of wine than I'd like... Fear not though, we'll rest tonight and perhaps I'll heal your wounds in the morning, if I feel like it," Tudagub responded bitterly. He would have left it at that, but truly Vincent was the one member of the group he enjoyed the company of, and at least he complained less than the elves. "Here share some wine with me Vincent, I've always found that it's the best remedy for... well for anything."
So they sat outside the cave while the two elves decided to take a look inside the cave. Bregor's eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, the unsophisticated dirt walls coming in to focus as they walked through the exit. The smell was what hit their senses first though, a smell of rotting meat and dung, of stale water and damp air. As Abigaël brushed her fingers along the walls, she felt the damp soil around them and removed her fingers, shuddering at the thought of living in such a dank place. The ground squelched slightly beneath their leather boots, and as they walked they both hoped it was simply water that made the ground so moist. The cave inside formed a corridor that carried on for some time, but after fifteen feet it branched off to the left in to more darkness. As they approached the branch in the passageway, Bregor took up a position against the wall and peered around the corner.
The room appeared to be a wide open cavern, with no real structure to the walls clearly carved from the rock and earth around. There was little of note in the room, except for perhaps what could be mistaken for bedrolls, or though they looked little more than rags littered on the ground. The only real feature of the room was a small wooden chest, propped against the far side of the room, perhaps three feet long and half as deep. Both the elves approached the chest and crouched down beside it, examining the poorly crafted design. Abigaël placed a hand on either side of the lid and attempted to pull it open, but it didn't budge, clearly locked in place. A few minute's exploration with her hands found a small lock sunken in to the front of the chest, and without needing any encouragement from Bregor she took out her tools and began to pick at the lock. Clearly a basic design, perhaps even made by one of the more skilled goblins, it gave way quickly to her attempts. She made a satisfied noise before lifting the lid open, and inside... they found nothing.
"Oh," Abigaël said, rather pointlessly, her face not hiding her disappointment.
"Speaking of things that are disappointing," Bregor started, placing a slender hand on her shoulder. "How much gold did you really find on those bodies Abigaël?"
She smiled innocently and raised an eyebrow back at him.
"You don't trust me?"
"It's not that I don't trust you, but we're both elves... and you're not as good a liar as you think. Not to me anyway," Bregor smiled. No threats on his lips, just charm.
Abigaël continued to stare at him for a few more moments, before reaching in to one of her leather pouches and counting out another twenty five silver, handing it to her brethren.
"Keep that to yourself Bregor and there might be more in the future. After all, we elves have to look out for each other," she said, flashing him a mischievous smile.
They agreed to bring the chest outside so the others could see and hauled the grubby container in to the daylight where Tudagub merely regarded them with a look of confounded amusement.
"Is that all you found? An empty chest? Or did the thief take everything inside of it?"
"Judging by these scratches and marks I'd say there was some kind of weapon held in it at one point but now it's empty," Bregor replied, practically beaming at his own powers of deduction.
"Well... thank you for bringing the chest outside elves. I mean... I don't... I don't understand," Tudagub began, before shaking his head and taking another swig of his wine.
Abigaël looked frustrated with Tudagub's dismissal and strode up to him, gesturing at the chest.
"Make sure there's not a hidden, invisible compartment in it or something... You know, with your powers?"
That remark caused even Vincent to snort in to his wine. While the pair of elves might be intelligent when it came to tracking or thievery, it seemed to their companions that they often lacked a basic common understanding that even your average peasant would have. That was the thing about elves, always trying to think on a higher level that they missed the obvious things all around.
"I'm not a wizard... What are you? I can't..." Tudagub began, before shaking his head.
"We should all go back in to the cave," Bregor suggested. "Best not to split the party up and there's sure to be more to explore than just the first room."
"Vincent and I are pretty badly beaten up," Tudagub retorted. "So we're in no shape to be going in to somewhere we could have to fight, let's just set up camp, drink some wine and get some rest. I'm sure the cave won't have gone anywhere in the morning."
For once, everyone agreed with Tudagub and the group moved off in to the woods they had originally approached from and began to set up camp. Bregor gathered some fallen wood and started a small campfire to cook the salted meat they had bought in Solace to keep them going. Vincent mentioned something about bringing the bodies to sleep on top of, clearly slightly unhinged by the blood loss and the amount of wine he had drank, this idea seemed fairly normal to Vincent. After some consultation with his companions he thought better of it and simply helped Bregor pile the bodies in to a thick clump of bushes and scrub where they would not easily be found. Once they had eaten their meagre supper, the group each lay down to take some rest, removing their uncomfortable armour and laying their weapons beside them. Only Bregor chose to sleep above in the trees, feeling more comfortable above with his possessions hanging on the branches around, truly a ranger of the forest. So our brave adventurers settled down for a night's sleep, the last embers of their fire slowly dying as the stars rose in the clear sky. They all hoped to wake well rested and ready to finish what they had came to do, a good night's sleep will solve many things and there was no reason their rest would be disturbed... Or so it seemed.