Urg the barbarian spat an old Orcish curse after the retreating form of the ranger. Very little had frightened him from the days since he'd been knee high to a Giant Spider. Growing up a despised slave in an Orc tribe had long ago inured him to violence, and taught him to look out, as well as punch, bite and claw, for number one. So he did not appreciate the shock Ieania had just dealt him.
"Too easy ta doze here an' booze," he thought to himself.
He was chilled with the realisation that he could now be on the floor with six inches of steel in his gut if the ranger had wished it. Truly this place was a treacherous one. You got here and stayed, lulled by the long, hot, dusty days, the breeze and the drink, and it slowed you. Unfortunately Lower Wyrmling wasn't a good place to be slow.
Anxiously he stroked Bob, the sacred talisman hung round his neck.
"I is gunna do dis job an' get outta dis place," he thought ponderously to himself.
The Dwarf looked up at him curiously as he stroked the doll.
"I has always meant to ask yer," he began.
"Wots dat fing dat I carrys rond moi neck" finished the Half-Orc, "I's noticed ya ey'in it up tryin' ta decide if it's worf nickin'," he added sarcastically as the Dwarf's jaw dropped open. Recovering himself the Dwarf scowled.
"Well is it?"
"Only if ya wants ya stunty 'ead kickin in," replied the barbarian. "Dis," he said reverently, enclosing the furry doll in his huge grey fist, "Is holy sym, syn-, thingy of moi village. Is thingy of our boss inna, wossit? Big blue thingy."
"Sky."
"Inna sky corr'lled Bob."
"Bob," said Zorro flatly.
"Yur, Bob. Youse wanna 'ear dis or not?"
"Oh yeah, this is one thing I'm definitely gonna listen to!"
"Well, my village woz raided by pointy-earz from da norf."
"Slims?"
"Yur. Anyhow, dey surrounded da village an' torched it. I got dis fing from our shaman. Its orl I's got ta remember dem orl by."
Zorro hesitated in his response, torn between his hatred of Orcs and a slight sympathy for his fellow party member.
He decided to change to a less sensitive subject. "Yer got a holy symbol off yer cleric?" he asked, impressed.
"Oh he dint want ta give it ter me. I had ta hit 'im wiv me axe a coupla times first. Any 'ow, oi got aht, but dey got all da uvvers I fink. So now I is da only 'un wot worships Bob."
Zorro squinted suspiciously. He'd heard of plenty of Small Gods, Gods worshipped only by a handful of locals, sometimes only in a single village or family. But in all his time down here he'd never heard of a divine mouse on legs. He squinted again at the idol round his partner's thick neck.
"So what are yer doin' with him?"
"'E is der godfing of cheese, garbage an' dese Wom-, Wong-, fings. I is lookin for dem. Wun day I wull find dem, an' den they wull make me der boss of der whole lot of 'em, an' orl be a king!"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," interrupted Zorro, waving his hand dismissivly, mildly worried by the red glow flooding from his companion's eyes, and the glazed look of fanaticism creeping across his face. Pausing to wipe some of the Half-Orc's phlegm out of his beard, Zorro staggered upright.
"Come on mate," he gestured invitingly at the exit, "Lets go bring Torfindel his musician and his pretty wizard."
Together the Dwarf and the sole worshipper of Bob, god of cheese, garbage and Wombles staggered off to collect the two women. Almond was so busy staring at the Necromancer's bust he wouldn't realise until the doors banged shut behind the party that Zorro hadn't actually paid for his drinks.
The Unknown Necromancer stopped her magic light display. Half way through a difficult piece, Carmina was startled and blinded in the sudden gloom. Her playing ceased abruptly. A thin pointed face turned down towards the mage with an expression of hurt surprise.
"What did you do that for? I was just getting to the good part," she complained in a puzzled tone.
The Necromancer sighed. "It was the only way to get your attention," she said gently. "I'd called out to you three times, but you'd drifted off again. What was it this time?"
"Oh, I was just fine tuning the third verse of Plato's Lament," smiled Carmina softly.
The Unknown Necromancer gave a single considered nod, eyes wide in disbelief. "You're writing a ballad about a philosopher chicken?"
"Oh yes, he's very keen on it. It's nearly time for him to realise he's a theoretical impossibility and vanish again, so we're trying to polish it now so it's ready for his return."
For the thousandth time since meeting the bard, the Necromancer closed her eyes. Was it just an act or a case of terminal optimism in mortal nature, she wondered wearily.
"Is what?"
"Oh never mind, just thinking out loud again. Oh, that reminds me, pull your cloak on. The Brain of Lower Wyrmling and his pet weasel are coming over tell us Torfindel's called a meeting."
Carmina's eyes widened.
"Really?" she whispered in an awed voice "At last! Something I can put down in my saga you think?"
The Necromancer grimaced.
"Perhaps. I don't know, I just read their lips."
Torfindel stood sweating under the boiling afternoon sun. Three o'clock and it was still so hot the air in front of his eyes shimmered with heat waves. He mentally kicked himself for the umpteenth time that day for slicking his luxurious blond hair back with pig grease. Normally it might stiffen the follicles upright, giving you an exotic yet approachable look amongst all the shaved heads of the locals, but in this weather, as he had found, the stuff just ran. As a result he now looked like a drowned rat, his locks plastered about his finely chiselled face. The grease hadn't stopped there either. He could even now feel it dripping down the back of his neck and spreading across his expensive silk shirt. Road dust thrown up by the wind was sticking to his sweaty skin. Altogether he decided wryly, he wasn't how you'd picture a Noldorian aristocrat. But then he'd fallen on hard times, so he supposed some slippage in standards was inevitable.
He spotted a dark-clad hobbit striding along the street, short sword strapped to it's waist. Hastily, he pulled his floppy hat lower and turned away from the Naked Elf, pretending to be listening to Ronald Krup.
The demented Half-Elf cleric was standing in front of the shack he called his shrine, ranting his message across the near empty plaza. His only audience, apart form Torfindel, was a bored looking donkey attached to an empty cart parked outside one of Lower Wyrmling's innumerable ale houses. It flicked it's ears idly as fly droned past, a look of world-weary resignation on it's face.
The hobbit guard froze at the entrance to the square on hearing this monologue, pivoted on the spot and sprinted back the way he'd come pursued by a torrent of invective in broken Hobbitish. Torfindel smirked and leaned back against the tree he was sheltering under, amusing himself by counting off which of the sins the Cleric raved about he was actually guilty of. He'd just reached double figures when he heard furtive footsteps behind him and whirled about. His hand only stopped reaching for his sword when he saw who it was.
"Oh, it's you," he said edgily.
"Yes it is," replied Ieannia sweetly. "Where you expecting anyone else? Your gorilla and his pet monkey where still trying to remember how to stand up when I left."
"Bah," Torfindel growled in disgust then spat on the ground elegantly summing up his feelings at his fellow adventurer's obtuseness. Ieannia's pert nose wrinkled up briefly at this unelven display, before settling back into her usual expression of sullen endurance.
A quartet of figures appeared up the road, and drew nearer. Torfindel squinted against the sun and spotted the coarse features of Zorro the Dwarf, immediately identifiable by the huge boil next to his nose and the stench of bitterroot beer that wafted wavelike before him. One figure broke away and waved enthusiastically at him.
"Hello Torfindel!" Carmina cried "What's the news?"
"Come on over where we can talk privately!" called Torfindel back. He glanced round the square nervously again. They were all in deep trouble here and it was his fault.
Carmina and the rest walked up, and she gave a smacking kiss on the cheek by way of greeting. Zorro leered at Torfindel and made a crude gesture at Carmina's back before being promptly buffeted round the head by the Unknown Necromancer. Across the square the cleric paused, staring. A split second latter the priest had recovered himself. His face went from red to purple with effort. His eyes bulged and his hair stood on end. A new burst of vitriol boomed hysterically round the square even louder then before.
Torfindel straightened up. He nodded around at the others, all huddled together in a tight group except for Ieannia, who was standing off to one side, slightly away from Carmina, although she was at least smiling at the reaction the others appearance had provoked from the preacher.
"Yev certainly got that priest proper worked up Carmina," said the Dwarf admiringly. "Must have seen something he...ngggh!"
The Dwarf turned and glared at the Necromancer who reached down with a leather bag. Sullenly Zorro reached into his pocket and produced a bronze coin, which he thrust into the purse. The Unknown reached down and tweaked his nose.
"Nasties we're not," she said reprovingly.
Zorro shot her a murderous glare before spiting brown phlegm on the dusty ground. The heat and the dust was making everyone irritable, the preacher doubly so. Torfindel waved his arms to gain the group's attention.
"If I could just begin..."
"What is that idiot cleric banging on about," ground out Ieannia, "Anyone would think he'd just seen a murder committed not a cuddle! And that's so two faced too. I've seen him in the Naked Elf dozens of times. I had to chuck him out last week after he started on poor Cipher the troll!"
"It's his cult's rules dear," explained Carmina knowledgeably. "I don't entirely understand this myself, but his lot are the umm... 'United Reformed Seventh Day Adventists of Correllion Levethien- Reform Wing'. They're a bunch of extreme moon worshippers- that is His symbol you see. They believe that in daylight you've got to cover every inch of your skin to shield it from the corrupting influence of the sun's rays. It's only at night they dress normally, and we're all bareheaded here except Torfindel. Why are you wearing a hat by the way?"
"Later," interrupted Torfindel, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, "If I could just bring everyone's attention back to the business at hand...?"
"Personally I can't concentrate with that racket going on," said the Necromancer serenely, "I'll just go and quieten down him. Bring me up to speed when I get back."
Ignoring Torfindel's glare she peeled away from the group and stalked towards the priest, her cloak billowing out behind her. The Half-Orc bent down and whispered to the Dwarf who nodded. Hands were shaken as the bet was sealed.
"Pay attention!" barked Torfindel, "Thank you," he said when the band's faces turned expectantly towards him. "Now as you know I was in the Naked Elf last night when I received a special delivery form Gangmaster Pretzel's lot- twice as many Bomber mushrooms as usual, at least fifty gold's worth."
There was an awed silence from the group.
"You mean," whispered Zorro, dry throated, "that you had a small fortune in your pocket, and you lost them?!"
"You lost mushrooms from the Milosevic Hobbits?" asked Ieannia, her heart sinking.
"That is what I've been trying to tell you for the last five minutes," said Torfindel reproachfully.
"Well, could yer pay them what yer owe?" inquired Zorro urgently.
"What do you think?" shot Torfindel back.
"Maybe you just mislaid them?" asked the Dwarf hopefully, grasping at straws.
"Look, I've spent the morning searching the whole area on my knees," said Torfindel impatiently, "No trace of them. They've been nicked. And since none of my 'customers' have turned up babbling about pink elephants and cheese I think we can assume it wasn't any of them. No, this was some opportunistic grab by some bloody local kid who bumped into me outside the Naked Elf last night. I hope they bloody OD."
Ieannia's face had paled. She started to edge away from Torfindel as if he'd just been transformed into a raging Hill Giant.
"Have you told Pretzel yet?" she asked innocently.
"He knew as soon as I didn't meet the first client this morning," stated Torfindel dryly, "He's been looking to speak to me all day. That's why I called this meeting. There's no way we can pay him off. We all need to run."
The Half-Orc frowned. Of all the species gathered in the plaza he'd been in Lower Wyrmling the shortest time, and he wondered at the shared terror settling in over the faces of the others.
"Woz da wurries?" he asked nervously, "If Torfindel 'ere gets squished then we cun finds a noo boss."
The others, ignoring Torfindel's splutterings of outrage, were shaking their heads mournfully.
"No dear. Hobbits live and work in clans. They're very tribal. A success or failure by one member is a success or failure by all members of his or her circle. And as Torfindel has just upset the biggest and most violent of the crime families we're all going to be brutally murdered in an act of collective punishment unless we get out of here right now," said Carmina, giving Torfindel a dazzling smile. "Don't worry, Torfindel, I'm sure you'll found a new business elsewhere easily enough!"
Torfindel smiled weakly back.
The Slightly Reverend Ronald Krup paused to draw a breath under the sweltering heat of the mid-afternoon sun. Straightening back up, the young Half-Elf continued chanting his memorised service to the donkey, keeping half an eye on the lone Elf loitering at the centre of the plaza. He nurtured a faint hope of a conversation with that one. It would be nice talk to an Elf for a change. He might even be a believer. As befitted an Elf abroad in daylight he was clothed head to toe and hiding his face in the shadow of the only tree growing in the central plaza.
As he continued to chant about damnation and the horrors of the Abyss he cast an experienced eye up, noting the position of the sun. Only another seven hours of being grilled in his armour and helmet before darkness and a stiff drink in the Naked Elf.
He cast his eye back to his only sentient listener and noted with interest that he had been joined by a whole group of people. Among them where three Elves, with their heads shamefully bare to the sun. As he watched they all began to talk animatedly together, patently ignoring him. Perhaps it was just the prospect of another seven hours wasted preaching to an empty plaza, or perhaps it was buried resentment of three years of indifference exactly like this that made the usually placid Ronald snap. Whatever it was he decided quite suddenly that if he was going to be ignored he would deviate from his usual sermon and give his audience something to listen to. Mentally cranking his voice up another octave, he took a deep breath and launch into Saint Gestron's message to the Grey Elves about the importance of shooting squirrels, eating enough fibre, and putting all non-Elves to the sword. He'd just got to the best part where the Saint deals with the Orcs, and became so wrapped up in the third verse he failed to notice the approach of one the Elven party until she shouted loudly into his ear.
"I said, what in the name of the Abyss do you think you're doing?!" the Unknown bawled into the priest's ear a second time.
"Preaching the True Word of Corellon Larethian!" spluttered the Cleric, so excited to talking to a member of the right race after so long he nearly dropped his holy symbol.
He turned to look get a closer look at the woman he was talking to. His gaze revealed a young elven woman, blonde hair spilling around her head. Her ears, large and pointed, were set high into her strangely shaped skull, and were laid back in the Elven gesture of annoyance. Alien eyes parted by an almost non-existent nose, gazed back at him under arched eyebrows. She was wearing a purple robe, secured at the waist by a calfskin belt with a bronze clasp. The robe flared at her neck into an open collar, which covered the back of her neck. At her throat, a gold clasp shaped into a leering demonical face held black cloak in place, over which was a pattern of stars and moons. A short sword hung at her waist in a plain leather scabbard, as did several shiny, drawstring pouches. Strapped to her thigh and partly covered by the cloak was a sheathed dagger. Catskin boots covered her feet. Ron blinked and had to hit himself.
She put her hand on her hip, cocked her head and said mockingly "Something wrong Reverend?"
"Nothing at all, ma'am. How may I help you? You'd like some Church Literature perhaps?" he said, trying to reign in the eagerness in his voice.
"Miz actually, I prefer the Noldorian title," she sniffed "And I came here to ask you to stop harassing my friends, not to natter about theology with a fanatic. And none of my friends across the square want to be converted either."
The Cleric felt confused. This wasn't how the conversation was supposed to go. The sinner was supposed to come to the priest, hear the Word for the first time and break down and confess under its terrible Truth. Then they would join the Church, become absolved and serve the great cause. He dimly remembered his instructors back at the mission telling him a cash donation came into it somewhere to.
"Milady," he said with an attempt to recover his dignity, "why would I try to convert Hobbits? Coreillian Levethien is an Elven go-"
The mage gave him a strange look.
"Hobbits? None of my friends are Hobbits-"
She started, and whirled around to look at her friends.
"Oh shit!"